That night you were staggering down the moss-cobbled street, rounding round the rusted curb, arms shooting out as you stumbled into a mail post. You lied on that road, back slumped over the gutter, broken teeth gnawing on an apple core, eyes closed to the world. You spit out the black pits, and they rolled down the sidewalk cracks. I leaned against a wall, thinking about whiskey. It was a ghost town. Nothing but ruined copper and scraps of newspaper curdled on concrete. For some reason, the lights still worked. The night brightened by lamp posts, tanning gold like a panner by the creek side, sloshing murky water with his sieve till he found that brilliant yellow gleam. As night grew, we walked past the broken-down brothels, the rotting mansions, towards a greyed motel. There was no clerk at the desk, so I reached into the key cabinet. I noticed something white. A bone. We didn’t touch anything else in our room that night. Didn’t dare open any of the closets.